


Atlas Shrugged

by dandelion_wines



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, First Kiss, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Sad Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelion_wines/pseuds/dandelion_wines
Summary: When he finally calmed down enough to stand, Dean hung the brown trench coat back in his closet and slammed the door shut.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	Atlas Shrugged

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Check tags for anything that may be triggering for you. There are mentions of suicidal ideation throughout, as well as a scene with a PTSD induced flashback. Also mentions of stitches but nothing graphic. 
> 
> For legal purposes, this is a fan work. I in no way have ownership over any characters in this work.
> 
> Take care of yourselves and if you want, let me know what you think!

There is a weight that comes with loss. It is unlikely to be ignored, because though who try to end up succumbing to the pressure with time. That part is almost worse. Ignoring this unimaginable weight is a fool’s game Dean was long passed playing.

The metal of the bunker seemed to creak with the stress of holding that weight at bay. It threatened to bend, then break, collapsing on the men inside with merciless tons. Their fortress would be transformed into their death bed. Their home turned Hell.

Dean wished it would just fall already.

This mindset was hardly new to him—to any of the Winchester group, really. The dread of living, the lack of fear death brought on. For whatever reason, it was becoming something worse than anything he'd felt in years. That was the frightening bit, wasn’t it? That was the thing that had him halfway to taking a sledgehammer to the foundation of the bunker himself. Of all his years on this God-forsaken earth, he’d lost everything at least once. 

Dad came first, rocking the core of his foundation, but that was to be expected with Dad. Their relationship, how John had raised him, was no different from building your mansion in the middle of the San Andreas fault. You can expect that it will be there forever, but when it isn’t, the day that Atlas shrugs and the earth quakes beneath you, you accept the consequences of the life you chose. The life forced upon you by someone else, in his case.

It hurts, but in the worst bout of honesty Dean has faced, it was liberating to watch that house fall. No more dreading the inevitable collapse. After all this time the guilt still ate at him for that thought.

Sam came next. The first time he lost Sam, it sent him on this spiral. It set their path, really, if he chose to believe they ever had free will. He didn’t, but that didn’t matter so much anymore. Saving Sam that first time wrought havoc, using a storm of undying loyalty and love that killed them more than it saved them. Dean had sold his soul, and upon doing so, he’d pushed them into Atlas’ cave and placed the world on their shoulders as Atlas laughed.

Then it just kept coming. Jo. Bobby. Benny. Kevin. Charlie. Mom. Every single time it ached, it weighed down on him. The weight of loss and the weight of the world became nearly indistinguishable. In the quiet drunken hours of the night, he and Sam would sit, faces hidden in shadows from the single lamp they had left on. “We get everyone killed, Sammy.” Dean had said once, washing down the words with a long pull from the cheap bottle of bourbon. Sam didn’t have it in him to reply, just reached out his hand for his brother to place the bottle in. Neither of them wanted to argue that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t their fault. It was the circumstances they had been chained to. Saving the world brought consequences. The clusterfuck the celestial assholes put them in was responsible for those losses, not them. It didn’t matter what the truth was, not to them. That weight was theirs to hold, theirs to fold under.

Dean knew that. Dean held that weight at every waking moment with little falter. So why was he crumbling now?

The question was already answered. He was crumbling because he would never check the rearview mirror and see what his chest longed for. He was crumbling because no one would raise their glass with him, not the way that it had been, to the tiny victories that made it worth it. He was crumbling because he would never wake from nightmares to see someone just sitting awkwardly in the corner. He was crumbling because he would never get to bitch at him for the clumsy human faults that fit him like a kid lost in their sleeves. He was crumbling because he would never get to see the color blue and not think of the moment he’d let him down for the final time. He was crumbling because he’d said it to Dean—the terrible, unspoken, horrifying, beautiful truth they had danced a pas de deux around for years.

He was crumbling because it was Cas.

Chilly air came down from the vent with a hiss, causing Miracle to twitch in his sleep, his fluffy little paws pressing into Dean’s calf in rapid succession. Sam must have turned the AC on. Rubbing the lack of sleep from his eyes, Dean forced himself to sit up. It was a slow movement that he’d noticed had begun to ache more than it used to. As much as he wished it was the stitches around his abdomen acting up again, he knew that his body had begun to creak long before his near-losing battle with a nail. The thing that hurt the worst from that encounter was his pride.

Dean slid out of bed as smoothly as possible, careful not to wake Miracle from whatever fun dream he seemed to be having. The doodle was huffing in his sleep and Dean hoped it was a nice dream about poodle ladies and dog bones twice the size of his furry little body. The dog deserved a good dream. He pulled his weight around the bunker, cleaning up spilled food, keeping the boys active, and keeping Dean from staying in bed until he began to rot.

Getting dressed meant carefully avoiding snagging the rudimentary stitch job on his tighter shirt that went under the rest of his layers, so instead, he opted for simply pulling a robe over himself. It was hanging on the back of his closet door. The warmth and softness of the garment against his bare, scarred skin felt like a contradiction, Dean bit down on the skin of his cheek. Not a contradiction. Something he deserved. He deserved something comforting.

No matter how many times a day he tried to “change your negative thoughts, Dean” as Sam had put it, the bullshit still sounded like bullshit.

He went to shut his closet, turning from it to venture into the bathroom and continue his morning routine, but the door wouldn’t close all the way. He pressed harder, but something was blocking it, probably a shirt that he’d knocked off a hanger when he had grabbed the robe. Rolling his eyes, he pulled the closet door back open. His eyes flashed wide and he yanked his hand away from the door handle like a kid who refused to listen to his mother when she said not to touch the stove. The pounding in his chest carried up through his neck and into his skull, banging into the walls there. Or was it the door?

His room had disappeared, but now was empty space, a devil’s trap on the floor. The banging rang out and was no longer identifiable as his heartbeat. It was there, black and fluid and in those depths hid tiny eyes and hands and things that threatened to be worse than Hell. He knew it and if it was coming for him? So be it. But it wasn’t. No, it was swallowing a mess of beige and black and flushed skin and clear tears and blue eyes. Dean hadn’t realized he’d started screaming until he felt the pain in his throat.

Suddenly it was cold. It was so cold. Then over the cold was warm. Dean snapped his eyes shut and dug the base of his palms into his sockets. He could feel that. That was real. The banging faded back to a rapid heartbeat. He needed to control that. He inhaled deeply for four seconds, held it for five, and released for four. Dad had always called it ‘combat breathing’. Sam hadn’t had the heart to tell him the more therapy-driven names. Dean had stumbled across those on the internet all on his own.

The cold then warm pattern persisted. When Dean opened his eyes again, he blinked away the black and purple dots that presented themselves and saw the walls of his room. The cold and warm was no longer encapsulating his whole body, but rather just the back of his leg. Turning with his fists raised, Dean looked and saw Miracle licking at him, trying to get his attention. _Doing his job_ , his brain supplied.

Dean ignored the warm tears that leaked from him as he collapsed to his knees and cradled the dog in his arms. “God, buddy. I—I’m sorry. I’m okay, I am. I’m sorry, man.” He whispered apologies into the soft fur of the dog’s neck. Miracle seemed willing to forgive him, and that was enough.

When he finally calmed down enough to stand, Dean hung the brown trench coat back in his closet and slammed the door shut.

\--

Breakfast with Sam was tense, to say the least. Eileen was still sleeping, Dean guessed. That was good. She deserved it. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was Sam. He had his _should we talk about this_ expression on and Dean answered it back with the meanest glare he could muster. He didn’t assume he looked all that intimidating though, with his face red and swollen from the morning’s tears. They ate eggs and French toast sticks Dean had snagged from the store on a whim in silence. He got to enjoy two cups of coffee before the inevitable sigh of his name broke the fragile air in the room.

“Sam, no. Okay?”

“We have to talk about it eventually, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Y’know, we don’t actually. I don’t have to talk about squat. I’m dealing with it in my own way and if you’ve got a problem with that? Tough.”

Sam looked into his eggs as if they held the words he needed to say. “Yeah. Tough.” Sam echoed. When he looked up from his eggs, his eyes were filled with pity. Dean wanted to smash his head in, but he knew that was only because he was hurting Sam as much as he was hurting himself. It was too much on him and Dean didn’t know an answer to it that wasn’t violence. He used to.

\--

The afternoon was spent cleaning Baby. She wasn’t all that dirty, but Dean could pretend. She could always use a little shine, a little paint filler, a little tuning up. “Couldn’t we all, huh Baby?” His tone was jovial enough, the morning’s misfortunes forgotten with the buffing of wax. His torso hurt, even with the looser-fitting shirt keeping his stitches from hopping on that train to snagsville. That was okay if he was honest. Kept him present. Pain was something he was used to. A strange thing to find comfort in, sure, but Dean figured his life was far enough from normal that it checked out.

\--

For dinner he cooked chicken on the grill he and Sam had bought. It was marinated with some barbeque thing and tasted pretty damn good. After his first bite, he had smirked a little to himself and nodded, far too pleased with himself. Sam had rolled his eyes and slid a beer across the table. Eileen had mirrored Dean’s internal monologue about the food, signing compliments to help Dean learn even more. He gave her a rare, genuine smile. Sam ate a salad and Dean went straight-faced.

“It’s insulting that you do this, y’know. That shit hurts, Sam. That shit hurts.” Sam had just laughed and shoved a bite of leafy greens into his mouth.

They all shot the shit for an hour or so, talking about the annoying nature of current events that they hadn’t paid attention to until now, and even reminiscing on some of their better memories of time on the road. Dean didn’t say one bad thing about himself the whole time. Neither brother mentioned it, and neither did Eileen, but they all acknowledged it wordlessly as they cleaned up the table, their silence so much more comfortable than the morning’s.

Around 11 they’d go their separate ways, finding themselves in their separate rooms going through the same things. The lists of people they’d lost. The tossing and turning that rubbed the skin of their shoulders raw. Eileen would press gentle kisses to Sam’s face, running her fingers through his hair slow but sure. Dean would do the same for Miracle in his own room, grounding himself so he didn’t spiral.

Sam and Eileen would fall asleep within an hour, waking up every few hours with Sam’s nightmares. He was getting to the point where he couldn’t really remember what they were about once he was awake.

Dean wouldn’t sleep much. When he did fall asleep, he only had bad dreams. Waking from them was hardly a relief. That garnered him a cheek bite.

He would put his head in his hands and sigh, then speak out loud, telling Cas all about his dreams. Maybe heaven still got prayers.

\--

The routine went on like that without so much as a hitch for three months.

And then one night it didn’t.

It had been Hell, that night. Not him on the rack, but the time he’d hopped off of it. There weren’t full pictures or anything. Just flashes of flesh, and screams, and ice so cold it felt like fire. People still had their general looks about them in Hell, albeit mangled and damaged and constantly being shredded. _By your blade, you bitch._ His own voice was becoming the worst sound he’d heard. But yeah, people looked like people. That meant Dean got the unique pleasure of looking into someone’s eyes as he cut through them.

When he finally fought his way to consciousness, he wretched in the toilet.

After brushing his teeth, he had curled back up into his bed and assured Miracle he could go back to sleep and started his prayer. “Hey, Cas.” His voice caught, as it always did when he began. “I always think I sound stupid, tellin’ you what you already know. You saw Hell. You—you know what I did there. What it’s like. But uh, I guess that’s why I tell you right? Cause you know.” Dean pulled in a shaky breath. “I was back there again tonight. Couldn’t stop feeling how good it was to get off that rack. Shit. _Shit_.” Dean bit his cheek, a desperate attempt to stop his tears, but like every night, it did nothing. Figures.

“Sometimes I think I coulda just stayed there. Never given up on it, never gotten off that rack. Then the world wouldn’t have tried to end and you—you wouldn’t be—”

_Dead. Say it. Say it because it’s your fault. You owe him that._

“You never woulda had to meet my sorry ass. I know I’ve been trying to be good to myself for Sammy, so he stops worrying and all. But Jesus, Cas, I wish you’d never pulled me outta

Hell, cause then you wouldn’t be gone. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with—with all _this_!” He pounded his fist into his chest once, feeling it reverberate. The tears were sporadic, falling unevenly as he spit the words into the darkness of his room. He didn’t bother trying to wipe them.

“I want to hate you for it. I’m sorry, but I do. If I could hate you, I think this could be easier. I wouldn’t have to deal with it, y’know? Wouldn’t have all this shit inside of me that comes bubbling up all the time. If I could have hated you for pulling me out of Hell, or betraying Sam and me, man, I would’ve done it.” A beat. “Knowing what I know now it would be easier to hate you.”

“But I can’t. Never could. Always toed that line and fell the other way. And I never got to tell you cause I was such a fucking coward, Cas. You—you looked at me and you said it and I let you die. But that’s par for the course, isn’t it?” Dean was on his feet, pacing like an animal that was being backed into a corner.

“Yeah, yeah it is. Me letting you down. Me being some scared little kid who couldn’t do the right thing, couldn’t speak my mind when it really mattered. I always have something to say until it matters. But like I always do, I let you go.” He let out a curt laugh. “What’s that saying? Fool me once or some shit? Jesus, I’m like a freakin’ clown if that’s the case, what with the number of times I let you walk away—or shit! Sent you away. And now it’s too late and you don’t even know how much this is killing me, Cas. Cause I couldn’t say anything.”

His body shuddered with his breathing. Miracle whined in concern. “I’m fine, bud. Just go back to sleep.” Dean regretted how sharp his voice sounded.

The whining persisted and Dean looked over to the bed where the dog lay, saying as he turned, “Dude, really it’s—”

But his words stopped short.

The person by his bed seemed confused by his being there. His movements were slow, unsure. Dean dug his nails into his palm. This was just his brain fucking up again. Maybe he’d finally cracked for good. Dean felt like collapsing, but his body was frozen by some unknown force. He could do nothing but stare, mouth slightly agape from his half-finished words to his dog, who was wagging his tail at Dean as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The figure, dressed only in a white button-up and slacks, no tie and no coat to match, walked towards him. Dean wanted to reach for his gun or a knife or _something_. His body remained still.

The figure—a man or some fucked up hallucination of one, got closer. He was only a foot away when his head tilted to the right and Dean was half a second from singing hallelujah at the top of his lungs. 

“Cas—”

“Hello, Dean. I heard your prayer. You’re wrong, you know.”

Dean passed the world back to Atlas, shoving it from his own shoulders and crawling out of the cave he had been herded into. _Keep it you stupid son of a bitch._

Finally able to move, he launched himself at the angel. Cas seemed prepared for it and steadied them so as not to go toppling backward and crush poor Miracle. He smelled like cinnamon and old books. His arms were steadier than they’d been in God knows how long. His face was dusted with a layer of scruff. He felt smaller in Dean’s arms without all the layers. Good. Easier to hold onto.

And hold he did, because that’s what you do with the world you care about. It’s what he’d always done. He just had never pieced together that he could pick which world he devoted his time to. With the return of Cas, Atlas had shrugged for the second time in Dean’s life. Everything Dean had been conditioned to care about was flushed from him in this moment, his foundations cracked again but this time something was glittering beneath the surface. He knew what it was immediately. That terrible, unspoken, horrifying, beautiful, relentless feeling.

Cas seemed to know what Dean needed. Stability was something he’d always provided. If you needed your ninth-inning closer, Cas was the man. He always came back, even when Dean did nothing to deserve it. Especially then. Cas held the hunter in his arms and didn’t even mention how hard Dean was crying, a carryover from the tearful prayer. Someday Dean would mention how much he appreciated that bit.

But for now, he just muttered into the angel’s chest, “The fuck do you mean I’m wrong?”

Cas laughed.

Dean held on tighter, desperate to feel each vibration of it.

The angel pushed on Dean’s shoulders gently, sending Dean back to a more in-tune-with-reality mindset, and back on his own two feet. Cas was smiling. His features seemed younger, less pained, less worn. Not the defeated man Dean had lost, but the warrior he had met so long ago. His hands laid on Dean’s shoulders, and he took a deep breath.

“You were wrong, in your prayer.” Cas started, searching Dean’s face for some semblance of understanding. Dean couldn’t help there, even if he were to be having more thoughts than just _blue. I can see blue again and it’s right._ which he was not.

“You said you had never told me. That I was the one to say it and that you had not. You’re wrong.”

Puzzled, Dean said, “What are you talking about Cas? You told me you loved me.”

“I did.” It was stated firmly. “But I wasn’t the one who said it first.”

Obviously clued into how confused Dean was, Cas rolled his eyes and just smiled. “Purgatory, Dean. Your prayer. I heard it the same way I heard all of the ones you have uttered since. I felt it, in your prayer, that you returned my feelings. I had had my suspicions beforehand, but it was as if all of a sudden it was so clear. Dean, when I told you I loved you, I was only returning your words—just the ones you keep inside. I know you and your brother have a hard time actually expressing such things and I—”

That was enough for Dean. For once in his cursed life, someone knew exactly what he was saying by saying everything but what he wanted to. He kissed Cas with no hesitation. Holding the man’s face and kissing him as deep as he could, Dean sent silent prayers he now knew Cas was hearing.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you_.

Cas answered the prayers, as he always would. “I love you too.”

Dean hadn’t tasted anything on his lips as sweet as that.


End file.
